


there can be no oceans

by gravitee



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Adorable Grogu | Baby Yoda, Bathing/Washing, Domestic Fluff, Family Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Good Parent Din Djarin, Omera (mentioned) - Freeform, Parent-Child Relationship, Parenthood, Post-Episode: s01e04 Sanctuary, Temper Tantrums, one (1) mention of 'spice' as a drug, sw insists on whack names for everything and i stand by them, this mentions refresher/'fresher a lot but. it's a bathroom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:08:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28872063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravitee/pseuds/gravitee
Summary: It's only when the Child needs a bath that Din realises his ship doesn't have one.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda
Comments: 16
Kudos: 186
Collections: Noromo Mando: Mandalorian Genfics Collection





	there can be no oceans

**Author's Note:**

> “without water drops, there can be no oceans; without steps, there can be no stairs; without little things, there can be no big things!” — mehmet murat ildan.
> 
> [look at that stinky gremlin demon child and tell me he doesn't need a bath]

The Crest wasn’t built for children.

Her walkways are narrow, interiors unpainted. Any room not taken up by essential utilities has long since been repurposed for weapons and munitions storage. There are no rounded corners, no softened edges; there is no baby-proofing to speak of. A capsule of robust, sturdy durasteel hurtling through the galaxy.

As reliable as she is, especially in the hands of Din’s capable piloting, the bare minimum the Crest offers to any inhabitants at all is an absence of jagged scrap metal jutting out to be slashed on. Which is as close to a miracle as he’s going to get, considering his ship’s survived being taken apart and stitched back together again. 

Sometimes the visor’s sight catches on a slivered scar. The junction between the cockpit and ladder, the panel next to the hatch. He’ll look at it for a second, bumpy and gnarled, remembering the Crest’s shell scattered in pieces across desert rock. He’ll remember his ship, peeled to bits without mercy. Then he’ll brush his fingers over the soldered mark, and walk away.

But despite everything, the Crest is comfortable; Din can admit that her resilience, outlasting her age, is something he’s grown attached to. And when it comes to the very, very mundane, the kid seems to have pretty good instincts — doesn’t dangle over heights, doesn’t stick his hands into sockets and plug ports. His ship, in and of itself, doesn’t pose a threat to the little one. So long as he’s not left in the cockpit unsupervised.

It’s a minor weight off his shoulders that the kid’s content to amuse himself with that gear knob, occasionally gurgling commentary to Din — who has found _“Is that so, kid?”_ to suffice as proof that he’s listening _—_ and offering a satisfied, toothy grin. This is typically the point that Din feels his mouth pulling up into a crinkling smile, fond and proud.

It reminds him of something Omera told him in passing. Din hadn’t understood the phrase at the time, hadn’t ever needed to apply it in his day-to-day. 

_“You’re lucky,”_ she’d said knowingly. _“He’s an easy baby.”_

Thinking of mudhorns and mudjumpers and the kid’s inability to follow instructions, Din didn’t think it made much sense. He understands it now.

But, no — the Razor Crest, being a gunship and not a nanny droid, was not constructed for childcare. In all honesty, this hadn’t really occurred to Din beyond the obvious.

Until the kid needed a bath.

A bath that his ship does not _have._

Din sighs, standing in the refresher doorway and staring at the slim sonic shower compartment. The Child waddles in curiously behind him, leaning on his boot with both arms hugging the ankle. He coos up at Din questioningly. There’s a slight twitch of his ears before he raises his arms. Two chubby fists clench and unclench repeatedly, a familiar demand.

Din promptly bends down to pick him up, angling him face forwards to stare at the offending compartment together.

“It’s a sonic shower,” Din explains. He frowns, wondering how to go about this. The kid smacks his lips idly. “Don’t think it’s meant for kids, buddy.”

Those wide, dark eyes suddenly turn to him with hope, but Din’s already shaking his head. “No.”

The kid blinks, multiple times. Din could swear the little monster’s batting his eyelashes. _“No._ You still need a bath, you’re not getting out of it that easy.”

In his arms, the kid deflates with a huff. His ears droop so quickly they bat against Din’s chest and quiet grumbles buzz through the cloth of his shirt.

It makes Din smile, part-amused and part-relieved. He’s never been very good at the whole ‘disciplinarian’ thing, especially not with a kid that can move things with his mind. It’s difficult to tell where to draw the line between kind and disapproving. He’s probably leaning more into the former. 

“We’ll just have to… figure something out.” 

He glances to the left. The sink is built into the wall, a nondescript metal bowl with a drain and tap. Din avoids looking at the mirror above. After so many years under the helmet, it doesn’t necessarily feel _surreal_. It’s simply odd to have visual confirmation of what he looks like.

The kid squirms in his arms, and Din blinks, slowly placing him back on the ground. He shuffles out of the ‘fresher quickly to whichever corner he’s chosen to play in today, his stuffy brown robe dragging slightly on the ground. Maybe that needs to be looked at. 

Din looks back to the sink, figuring something out.

———

For all intents and purposes, the sonic shower is useful. Or perhaps that isn’t the right word, considering it just does what it’s supposed to. 

It’s efficient, then. A way for Din to stay clean without worrying about the ship’s current water capacity. Whether it’s actually pleasant or not is another question, but one that’s never been important enough to be asked. 

Now, though, Din thinks he’ll need to find a more permanent solution.

The sink in the ‘fresher has its own water supply, true. But it’s enough for Din to wash his hands and shave every few weeks at most. Since the New Republic started cracking down on smuggling circuits, the price of water transportation fit for hyperspace has spiked. A popular medium for diluted spice, apparently. So he’s careful with how much he uses up, wary of the ever-dwindling pile of credits to his name. 

He kneels down next to the sink, craning his head to check behind a panel and exhaling sharply with the protesting ache of his neck. It’s a small slot for a liquid tanker, and Din soon realises it won’t be enough to fill a cup, much less the whole basin.

It won’t work. 

———

This brings him to the next idea. Somewhat quickly, because the kid seems to have gotten into his head that no water means no bath. That’s probably bad handling on Din’s part.

There are sealed tanks of water stored in a hull compartment. Bulk-purchased and potable, for prolonged journeys and adverse conditions. Tanks that he’s loath to crack open when there’s water available elsewhere.

He lugs one into the fresher, and when he feels his lower back twinge with the effort, he makes sure to bear the brunt of the weight with his legs. Then his knees begin to strain. He sighs.

He passes by the kid on the way, sitting on the floor and gnawing on his metal ball with intense focus and adoration. He looks up at the sound of Din approaching, tilting his head sweetly at the tall canister.

Din takes it as a question, so he answers. “No idea, kid.”

When he does, finally, manage to shove the tank in the refresher and pour as much of it as he can into the sink’s water supply tube, the Child follows. His head turns from the half-empty tank, to Din, and back to the tank. As the ears swish with every movement, like palm leaves twitching and swaying in the breeze, Din watches the gears turn patiently. It’ll click.

Then the kid thwacks a hand on Din’s thigh, and very insistently garbles something with a firm nod. His approval is understood.

Din smiles. Lets it linger on his face, melt in his chest so warmly he can nearly ignore his aching joints. Gently, he places a hand on the little one’s head, rubbing the spot between his ears and eliciting a fond coo. “Thanks.”

———

That good mood doesn’t last very long when the kid realises, eventually, that bath time has arrived.

———

A tragic wail cuts through the Razor Crest.

From where he’s held over the ‘fresher sink, the kid screeches in Din’s hands, kicking his little legs in the air and keeping a vice grip on Din’s sleeves. Even the ears — those huge, petal bat-ears — are wiggling up and down in his efforts to escape.

“Hey,” Din says. He tries for stern, but it comes out mostly tired. “ _Hey._ Stop that.”

The kid is either ignoring him, or just can’t hear it over the racket he’s making. He scrunches his eyes closed with newfound vigour and shrieks so loud it rings in Din’s ears. He winces.

The Crest’s refresher is built into a cramped corner of the hull. Fitted with a sonic shower, privy, sink and mirror, Din’s fairly certain there are graves dug bigger than this.

It’s never mattered before, since Din spends so little of his time in here anyway, but now he’s stuck in a broom closet — a metal one, with solid, _echoing_ walls — with a screaming child.

Din sighs, with feeling. His headache, which hasn’t let up since the jump into hyperspace, throbs heavily behind his eyes and between his ears. For a second, he toys with the idea of turning off the helmet’s auditory sensors. 

The kid had more or less been fine at first. From filling the sink to fetching the soap — a standard, unscented brand that Din only really stores for handwashing — to barely managing to tug his robe over those oversized ears. The kid had insisted on doing that last one himself, until he’d stumbled with the shift in centre of gravity and bowled himself over.

He’d been fine, until his stubby, clawed toes first dipped in the water.

It’s remarkable, Din realises as he looks down at the distraught child dangling from his hands. The kid hasn’t really cried for… for _anything_ till now. At the most, Din just gets a dry, unamused look whenever he hasn’t followed the little overlord’s express wishes. Like eating wild frogs off the ground. Womp rat.

Hearing the repercussions now, it might not have been remarkable so much as just lucky. How does one so small have lungs so _strong?_

“All right,” Din calls. Trying to be gentle yet also _heard_ over the noise at the same time is a challenge, so it comes out somewhat choked. 

At his voice, the kid takes a breather. Literally, his round body heaves in Din’s hands, gasping for breath after his tantrum. Din eyes the tear tracks streaming from his wide, dark eyes, and his sniffling little nose. He can feel the kid’s ribcage pushing in and out rapidly beneath his fingers, stretchy like a balloon fitting in the palm of his hand. He hadn’t forgotten how tiny the kid is but — a lump settles in his throat at the reminder. 

He feels his face fall. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, unsure of what he’s pleading for but feeling as if he’s wronged the Child anyway. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it would upset you so much.”

Whether it’s his tone or the words themselves, something brings the kid to peace. Though still hiccuping, his breathing evens out.

“That’s it,” Din encourages. “Deep breaths.”

He inhales, lifting his head and shoulders slightly with the movement to demonstrate, before lowering on the exhale. 

The Child watches him for a moment, blinking wetly, before doing the same. His ears perk up and down with every breath. “That’s it,” Din repeats.

When he’s reasonably sure the Child won’t start bawling again, Din takes a second to rearrange the kid into sitting balanced on his forearm, facing him towards the mirror. With the other hand rubbing circles into the kid’s back, he addresses the reflection.  


“Listen,” he starts seriously. The kid looks up, watching the helmet in the mirror’s shiny surface. “I get that you don’t like it. And I’m sorry I upset you. But you need a bath, so we have to figure something out.”

Din swallows, wondering how they’re going to do just that. The kid, in the meantime, clutches the shirt of Din’s sleeve in two grubby claws and starts chewing, not taking his eyes off the helmet for a second.

Just as he’s about to ask the kid to stop, or at least lay off a little so the fabric doesn’t tear, he gets an idea.

———

In the recent past, Din can’t really remember when things last went his way. So he’s almost confused when the third time really is the charm.

“That’s all it took, huh?”

The kid happily ignores him, watching the gear knob through the shallow, mildly-soaped water with fascination. He stares straight down, his ears sticking up like fresh reeds from a pond, enamoured with the sight of his favourite thing underwater. The concentration he uses to roll it around with both hands softens the corners of Din’s mouth.

You’d never guess the little womp rat was raising hell just minutes before.

Fetching the gear knob from outside was a last resort. He’d been grasping at straws, willing to take anything that would calm the kid down.

And it worked. Leading Din to scrub the bar of soap between his hands, trailing suds through the clouding water.

The temperature suits the kid just fine, apparently. With no way to heat the basin, Din had just… _waited_ for it to get more or less lukewarm. Not ideal, not by a long shot. He’d clenched his jaw, uncomfortable and awkward in the face of yet another reminder that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Standing around doing nothing didn’t sit well with him. At one point he half-seriously considered getting the flamethrower out to speed things along.

But the Child, naturally, didn’t seem to mind. He now slaps his hands into his bird-bath pool with delight, relishing in the waves he can create. The pale, fuzzy hairs on that wrinkly head don’t so much as twitch, and Din has to wonder if the kid’s leathery skin has something to do with that tolerance.

A bubble wobbles into the air, fragile and translucent. A dark, watery gaze snaps to it immediately — the kind of precision only reserved for mudjumpers. The kid stills, and the gear knob is momentarily forgotten in favour of biting through the air to catch the floating parlour trick between sharp, pointy teeth. 

_Pop._ Smack on the kid’s mouth. A light burst of soap residue sprays on the kid’s face, and the squeak of a sneeze he lets out pushes him an inch backwards in the basin. 

Din can’t imagine how a thing could be that _tiny_.

“Nice job,” he offers quietly, because a successful hunt is something to be praised. He gives the kid’s face a once-over — with eyes so big, it’s impressive that the soap missed them entirely. The kid whines disagreeably; he evidently doesn’t care much for the flavour. His button nose wrinkles, and he bounces again with a cough.

Din chuckles. The sound rings in time with water sloshing over the lip of the sink.

“Maybe save the hunting for outside,” he advises, patting the kid on the back. The Child looks up at him mournfully, as if to agree, before returning to the gear knob resting by his foot. A new game is begun; shoving the metal ball so that it rolls halfway up the sink’s bowl before returning straight back, like magic. Every metallic scrape brings a new ripple of laughter.

He should be more mindful of how there’s more water on the floor than in the basin, now. But there are always more tanks in the brig.

In a series of excited, comprehensive babbles, the kid begins explaining the rules of his new game to Din, who listens closely. He interjects here and there to show the kid as much, but is otherwise just a spectator to the kid’s lecture.

Then for a moment, without thought, he looks up. Straight ahead, into the mirror. And he almost can’t recognise the sight.

It’s his helmet, obviously. Comforting; beskar gleaming as much as the day it was first given to him. Unchanged. Same height, same clothes.

But his sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, baring inches of skin and several wiry scars. The front of his dark, woven shirt is darker still with the water lapping over the sink’s edge, a sodden patch forming over his abdomen. He feels some of it drip onto his boots and the floor. His hands are covered in suds, tenderly but thoroughly scrubbing the edge of one floppy green ear.

The kid, sitting satisfied and unaware with his cherished toy, makes the image look complete.

Din looks at the man in the mirror, giving his son a bath in the sink. He thinks that his image probably needed a reset anyway.

Then, with something caring and delicate fluttering in his chest, he moves on to the baby’s claws. He makes sure to scrub between the fingers.

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: things i wanted to tag but it didn't work
> 
> \- din sighs a lot in this fic and i call that premium characterisation  
> \- his joints and back are also killing him. that is of paramount importance i cannot stress this enough. v important to me personally  
> \- rip the razor crest i miss her :(  
> \- she is a character and she shall be treated as SUCH
> 
> ———
> 
> things that i should mention for context but could probably be ignored:
> 
> \- if hyperspace isn't good for frogspawn then i'm assuming you can't put a baby in a vibrating people-cleaner  
> \- the crest might have an actual water-pressure shower, who's to say. if it's not mentioned i can do what i want  
> \- speaking of which, i used that one [godsend of a diagram](https://i.redd.it/5t3qkgtwxer41.jpg) as reference for the razor crest and promptly disregarded it when i needed to  
> \- realistically, this long after din rescued grogu, a bath probably should have happened already. but also i don't care  
> \- omera is an experienced mother and din gets parenting tips from her regardless of how you interpret their relationship this is what i choose to believe  
> \- anything i know about babies has been against my will don't learn anything from this fic please and thank you
> 
> ———
> 
> comments and kudos are appreciated!


End file.
